The Last of the Plainsmen 



to dark. Point Sublime, bold and bare, ran out 

 toward the plateau, jealously reaching for the sun. 

 Bass s Tomb peeped over the Saddle. The Temple 

 of Vishnu lay bathed in vapory shading clouds, and 

 the Shinumo Altar shone with rays of glory. 



The beginning of the wondrous transformation, 

 the dropping of the day s curtain, was for me a rare 

 and perfect moment. As the golden splendor of sun 

 set sought out a peak or mesa or escarpment, I gave 

 it a name to suit my fancy; and as flushing, fading, 

 its glory changed, sometimes I rechristened it. Jupi 

 ter s Chariot, brazen wheeled, stood ready to roll 

 into the clouds. Semiramis s Bed, all gold, shone 

 from a tower of Babylon. Castor and Pollux clasped 

 hands over a Stygian river. The Spur of Doom, a 

 mountain shaft as red as hell, and inaccessible, insur 

 mountable, lured with strange light. Dusk, a bold, 

 black dome, was shrouded by the shadow of a giant 

 mesa. The Star of Bethlehem glittered from the 

 brow of Point Sublime. The Wraith, fleecy, feath 

 ered curtain of mist, floated down among the ruins 

 of castles and palaces, like the ghost of a goddess. 

 Vales of Twilight, dim, dark ravines, mystic homes 

 of specters, led into the awful Valley of the Shadow, 

 clothed in purple night. 



Suddenly, as the first puff of the night wind fanned 

 my cheek, a strange, sweet, low moaning and sighing 



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